


lines in the dirt

by sparkling_cider



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1920's, Friendship, Gen, catch me writing gen, i mean it's pre-slash, no slash??, they're both like six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 23:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17011338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkling_cider/pseuds/sparkling_cider
Summary: Steve and Bucky, aged six and seven respectively, meet for the first time on their school playground. It's not quite what the history books make it out to be.





	lines in the dirt

"That was stupid."

Steve looks up at the source of the comment—it takes him a moment to blink the dust out of his eyes—and finds himself staring at a dark-haired boy around his age.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks. He's aiming for intimidating, but since he's currently splayed out in the dirt with his shirt undone and kneecaps ripped, he realizes that it's mostly out of the realm of possibility. Not that that's ever stopped him.

The boy has a sandwich in his left hand, which makes sense because it's lunch time. He uses it to gesture with, waving it vaguely in the air.

"You should've stayed down the first time he hit you."

Steve struggles to sit up. It takes him a moment to position himself, but once he does he turns so that he can glare at the boy head-on.

"I couldn't've done that."

The boy takes a bite out of his sandwich and says, "Yes you could've."

Steve narrows his eyes. "No."

"That's stupid."

"It's not stupid!"

Steve wishes he could get up and give this busybody a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure that the minute he tries to stand, he'll either fall over or have that asthma attack that's been threatening ever since Billy Hopkins hit him in the stomach. He's not even sure why he cares why this boy thinks of him. Maybe it's because no matter how annoying he is, he's the only person at school except for the teacher who's talked to Steve today.

"Yes it is," the kid is saying. "If you just lay down, then he'd stop hitting you."

"But then I'd lose," Steve says.

"You lose either way."

Steve squints his eyes at him. He's not  _wrong_ , exactly, which is irritating. There's also a sharp rock digging itself into his thigh, which is even more so.

"But if I don't get up, then he'll know that I don't fight back, and he wouldn't bother fighting me."

The boy blinks as though this is the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

"That's the point!"

"No, the point is that then when he picks on Molly again and I tell him to stop he'll just laugh at me and keep doing it."

"Exactly! And he'll leave you alone, and you'll be fine."

"So you want him to keep picking on Molly?"

The boy shrugs. "Better'n him picking on you, isn't it?"

"No, it's not!"

The boy raises an eyebrow, clearly incredulous, and the silence stretches for a moment, longer than Steve is comfortable with.

Steve adds, "And if you think that it is, then you're the stupid one. I can take him hitting me, and Molly can't. It makes sense."

"Molly's bigger than you," the boy points out, and Steve springs to his feet because who cares about his injuries, that's  _rude_  and he won't stand for it. The boy takes a step back like he wasn't expecting it, and Steve feels a burst of pride because hey, at least he managed to scare him even if it was only the element of surprise. He wants to follow up on it, but then the bell rings and he loses track of the boy in the crowd of kids streaming into the building.

Next time, he promises himself; next time, he'll get him good.

But the next day, the teacher asks for a few people to stay in during lunch and clean up in preparation for the weekend, and Steve doesn't exactly mean to but somehow ends up volunteering to help. He wipes down desks as the other kids who decided to skip lunch—two girls—sweep the floor.

Lunch is nearly over by the time he gets to the teacher's desk. She waves him away and says that she can do the rest herself, but by then he only has enough time to eat, and even that's too hurried for his liking. Afterwards, Steve is too caught up in the end-of-the-day rush to remember to pick a fight. And then it's the weekend, and Steve has to delay his plans for a whole two days.

Finally, it's Monday. Steve listens extra hard during roll call and learns that the boy's name is James Barnes. It's nice to not have to call him "the boy" in his head anymore, even if James is too fancy of a name for a person who eats sandwiches while watching people get beat up and who'd rather save his skin than help someone else.

He probably has a nickname. Jimmy, maybe, though that doesn't sound right either so Steve resolves himself to James.

James takes a while to pack up his things on his way down at lunchtime. Steve, impatient, decides to go down ahead of him and walk around the yard or something while waiting for him to come down.

But then Billy's there again, and this time he and his friend Joe have stolen a smaller boy's lunchbag. Steve doesn't even know the boy's name but he does know that you don't go around taking people's things—not if you know what's good for you. So he marches up to Billy and demands that he behave himself, and Billy's face does a funny thing like he's surprised and angry and confused at once.

"What's it to you?" Billy asks, curious even as he dangles the bag above the boy's head.

Steve considers answering, but then he just punches him and things are simpler for a while: if there's one thing Steve can do well, it's get knocked around. He does this with speed and efficiency, and it's only a few minutes before Steve's ribs hurt too much to allow him to get up for the fifth time.

"Idiot," Billy scoffs. He and Joe make for the kickball game in progress on the opposite side of the schoolyard, the side that's visible to the patrolling teacher.

Steve lies still for a few moments. Eyes closed, just breathing. The pavement is hard beneath his back, but he'll be fine, he thinks, by the time the period is over. He usually is.

"See, that was you being stupid again," a voice says. Steve is almost certain that it's James, but it's been a few days since they last spoke. He opens his eyes just to be sure. Sure enough, he's standing a little to Steve's left, chewing in the same inexplicably annoying way as before.

"Was not," Steve says, throat is dry, probably from all the dirt he swallowed when Billy mashed his face into the ground.

"Was too."

Steve closes his eyes again. "Was not."

"Yes it was. Can you even get up?"

"Course I can," Steve says, and doesn't.

"Thought so," James says. He sounds smug, like he wanted Steve to get beat up just so he could say  _told you so_.

Steve wants to—doesn't actually want to hit him, now that he thinks about it. Wants to have a friend, instead of a person who's talked to him twice in the two weeks since school started, and both only times to insult him. Wants someone to understand why he gets into fights almost every day over the kinds of things that everyone else ignores. Wants some water.

James says, mouth open as he chews, "I just don't understand. What kinda person gets into fights with people bigger than him?"

"Me," Steve replies. "I do."

"Yeah, 'cause you're an idiot."

Steve wants some  _water_. He wants to cry, if he's being honest, but he's six years old and six year olds don't cry.

"He took someone's lunch," he tries to explain.

"Yeah? Whose?"

"I dunno." Steve swallows past the lump in his throat, dirt and maybe something else. "Didn't ask his name."

"And you got him his lunch back?" James's stopped eating now; Steve can tell because he's not making gross sounds anymore, or at least no more gross than his talking.

"Yeah."

"Huh."

James sounds almost impressed, so Steve feels the need to add, "Because Billy dropped it so he could hit me."

This silence sounds like James is thinking. "He would've given it back anyway, though."

And Steve just—Steve just wants some  _water_.

His ma said that school would be fun, that he'd learn interesting things and make friends, and so far he's done neither of those. It's not  _fair_.

James is still thinking.

"But he might've eaten part of it first, though."

"That's not the point," Steve says. He's tired of explaining it. "Everyone acts like it's okay for someone to do something just because they're bigger, and it's not. And someone has to do something about it, and no one else wants to."

"Huh," James says again.

Steve opens his eyes, just a crack, to look up at him. He has to crane his neck to the side to try and read the expression on James's face. It looks understanding, almost. Friendly.

And then, without another word, James turns around and leaves.

Steve takes a moment to process this and finds that he wishes that his ma were here. He's not supposed to want this kind of thing, now that he's in school. But Sarah Rogers always knows exactly what to do. She's smart and strong and people don't silently abandon conversations with her because she's too boring, or small, or something.

He closes his eyes again and allows himself to consider the idea that James is right. Maybe he shouldn't stand up for others. He'd probably have more—or any—friends if he didn't make a habit of becoming a nuisance to the person at the top of the food chain the second he enters a new environment. But that would mean watching Billy pull Molly's pigtails and doing nothing, or maybe even laughing, and Steve doesn't think he can do that.

He's doomed, then. He'll spend his life getting into fights for people who grab their lunchbag and run as soon as Billy is distracted and who don't say thank you after. And his ma is going to kill him when she sees the state of his shirt, and Steve just wants something to drink but moving hurts too much to bother.

Steve hears, over the din of the schoolyard, a pair of footsteps approaching. If it's Billy, back for more, he thinks he'll cry for real.

"I got you—I mean, I have water."

It's not Billy. Steve peeks upwards. James is standing over him, looking annoyed and also something else that Steve can't quite identify from his current angle.

"I left my bottle upstairs," James says.

When Steve doesn't respond, he adds, "You don't  _have_  to take it. But my ma made cookies, and if you want one you should drink water first so you can taste it better."

Which, what. Steve is happy that James is back, embarrassingly so, but he doesn't just get to stroll up and pretend that they're friends or something. Steve has  _dignity_.

"I don't want your ma's dumb cookies," he says.

James scowls. "Are you insulting my ma."

"I'm not!"

Steve might not like James, might even hate James a little, but that doesn't mean that he would go around insulting random people's mothers.

"Yeah?" James scowls even deeper and raises an eyebrow, which, how can he do that, that's not fair. "Because it sounds like you're insulting my ma's cookies."

"I just don't want them, is all."

"Why not?"

 _Because I don't need your pity_ , Steve thinks. But that's not quite right—Bucky seems too angry to feel sorry for him, and Steve's kind of hungry now that he thinks about it.

"I'm probably allergic," he offers.

"They're chocolate chip. You allergic to chocolate?"

"Uh."

"Thought so," James says, sounding far less angry all of a sudden and a lot more satisfied. He plops down next to Steve with a quiet huff and reaches into the bag.

"Here's the water," he says. He lays the bottle on the ground and rifles inside again. "And here's the cookies, Ma gave me three."

Steve blinks.

James rubs a hand at the back of his neck, and his face loses the determined expression. "Uh, you can sit up, right?"

"Yeah," Steve says. He can't really, but at this point it would be sad not to try.

He pushes himself up, trying not to yelp as his ribs tighten, and manages to maneuver into a sitting position.

Steve picks up the bottle—his palms leave slightly bloody handprints on the metal—and takes a long drink. It's not cool by a long shot, not after sitting in a classroom all day, but Steve will take what he can get. It feels amazing going down his parched throat anyway, and it's hard to keep feeling mad at James with the water bottle in hand.

When Steve puts down the water after drinking at least half of it, James doesn't comment on the blood stains, just hands Steve a cookie and cleans them off as best as he can with the hem of his shirt. This is, apparently, not particularly well.

"If you pour some water on it it'll come off easier," Steve offers. He's nothing if not helpful.

Bucky shrugs and does as Steve says.

A moment later, he looks up and asks, "You going to eat that or not?"

"Um—yeah," Steve says. He shoves the whole cookie in his mouth and immediately regrets it.

For one thing, it's huge: he can barely close his mouth over it. For another, the part of him that's actually tasting it rather than trying not to die informs him that it's really good.

"You like it?" James asks. He's watching Steve eat with his brow slightly furrowed, leaning slightly forward like he doesn't notice that he's doing it. Steve would say that James cares what he thinks about his ma's cookies, except that doesn't make  _sense_.

Nothing about James's behavior makes sense. One minute he's disgustingly self-satisfied, the next he's angry, and now he's nervous about something. Steve wishes he could read him better, but the truth is he has no idea what James is thinking at any given moment. Except—James's face is starting to droop the longer Steve goes without saying anything, and Steve realizes in a flash what's going on.

Somehow, Steve's failed to notice until right now (because he was too focused, as usual, on feeling sorry for himself) that he's never seen James talking with any of their classmates except him. Which means that he doesn't have any friends either and that he maybe wants Steve to be his frien. So—he's angry because he's been forced to resort to the bottom of the proverbial food chain to make a friend, and he's nervous that even Steve, the lowest of the low, won't want to be around him. Steve can work with that.

James is still watching him with narrowed eyes.

"This is great!" Steve tries to say, except half the pastry in his mouth goes down the wrong tube, and he spends the next thirty seconds choking.

When he looks up again, James is clearly struggling not to laugh.

"Are you okay?" he asks, although the end comes out more like a giggle.

Steve coughs out the last of the cookie, where it lays on the ground looking pathetic. "I liked it very much," he says solemnly.

This appears to be the last straw: James bursts out laughing, and Steve grins at him for a moment, feeling oddly proud.

"So," James says when he's done giggling, "I should introduce myself, right?"

Steve shrugs. It's not like he knows anything about etiquette.

James straightens his back. "Well, I'm James Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky."

"Bucky?" Steve repeats. "That's a stupid nickname." He smiles as he says it, hoping that James—that is, Bucky—will get that it's a joke.

Bucky looks affronted. "There's nothing wrong with my name."

"Sure there is," Steve says. He nods solemnly as Bucky glares at him. "It's stupid."

There's a pause; Bucky doesn't react, and Steve thinks he's ruined everything for real, but then Bucky slouches a little.

"You're making fun of me, aren't you."

Steve grins at him. "Yeah."

Bucky smiles back, small but happy. It looks much more natural on him than the scowl, Steve thinks, like Bucky's the kind of boy who has to work at being angry. Which means something, probably, but Steve can figure that all out later.

Right now, Steve decides, as they sit there, a little awkward, Steve still covered in dust and Bucky squatting to avoid getting his pants dirty, something important is happening, more important than his ruined shirt or his bruising ribs.

Steve, he thinks, has just made a friend.

He can't wait to tell his ma.


End file.
